


Surprise Visitor

by knockoutmouse



Series: Warming Up [1]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Misogyny, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Abuse, Sad Pickles, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 02:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17716265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Originally written/posted on ff.net in 2012. Reposted here with minor edits.Story takes place sometime after Snakes 'N Barrels II.Pickles gets an unexpected visit from a drunken Tony. Skwisgaar tries to help in the aftermath.





	Surprise Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, this fic is so old that it has totally outdated references to the legality of same-sex marriage in the US.

"Are you k-k-k-sure about this?" asked the first figure in the shadows outside one of the hotel's tastefully out-of-the-way service doors.

"Yeah, yeah, just let me in and I'll give you the cocaine."

"Cocaine? For k-k-k-me?" asked the clown, his eyes glazing over in fantasy visions known only to him. The man dangled the baggie under the clown's spiked nose.

Dr. Rockso swallowed hard, pulled out a key card from the dreadful lower regions of his spandex suit, and handed it over. His companion swiped it across the security reader, waited for the click of the door unlocking and pushed it halfway open. For a moment, the light of the interior hallway streamed out into the darkness, silhouetting the heavyset man as he nodded and tossed Rockso the drugs.

"Thanks, mister," giggled the clown, and slipped away into the darkness.

###

Pickles stared from the window of his room down into the darkness of the city night. Really, it wasn't dark at all, illuminated by streetlights, gleaming electronic billboards, neon signs, and headlights of cars. But it felt dark, to him. It felt dark because he was alone in a hotel room in a city where he had millions of adoring fans yet was still alone, except, of course, for the rest of Dethklok and Charles, who were around somewhere. The band was downstairs in the hotel bar, having a few drinks to wind down after their show, and probably to pick up some groupies as well.

Pickles had only wanted to sleep—it was late, after all, and he was reminded on occasion that he wasn't getting any younger—but after enough wheedling from the rest of the group, he'd agreed to join them after a short nap. Naturally, he hadn't been able to sleep, and so instead he'd ordered up a gin and tonic to steel himself for making an appearance in the bar.

He turned away from the window abruptly and prowled across the room, taking a sip of his drink and surveying the furnishings. Not brutal by any means: sponge-painted walls, lace curtains, and what the hell was this? A carved vanity table, complete with a mirror and a low stool. He'd taken it for a desk when he'd come in earlier. Knowing well enough that he shouldn't do it, Pickles crossed the room to it and leaned in to get a closer look at himself in the mirror.

Dark circles beneath the eyes. Lines etched into his forehead no longer as faint as they once were. A general appearance of someone tired, worn out, washed up. He sighed. What was it that someone—Tony?—had said to him once, a long time ago now? When he'd come in once, finding Pickles looking hard at himself in the mirror, parting his hair with his fingers from different angles as if to convince himself that it was still just as thick as it'd always been: _You're losing it, babe. Your looks are going. Now, you can get whoever you want into bed 'cause you're pretty enough, but it won't last forever. And in the end, there'll only be me._ And then, in response to Pickles's questioning glance: _What, you think anyone else would want to deal with somebody like you?_

Pickles shook his head and slammed his glass down onto the table. _That_ was something that he didn't need in his head right now. He should go down to the bar. Undoubtedly, it would be better to go somewhere with other people, where he could talk and drink and forget. Maybe he'd even pick up a groupie as well. He didn't even want sex—he was too tired for that, and not in the mood—but he could stand a blowjob, and that would at least give him the opportunity to sleep next to someone afterward, even if only for a few hours.

But would any of the girls down there even want to? Not that he necessarily preferred women over men, but there seemed to be a tacit agreement that picking up men while out with the rest of the band simply wasn't done; Skwisgaar only left bars and parties with women, though Pickles had, on occasion, seen youngish pretty men slipping out of his room with an unmistakable grin, and Murderface—well, they all had their suspicions about Murderface.

Pickles leaned against the wall and prodded the vanity stool idly with his foot. To his surprise, the seat revolved. With a faint smile, he sat down and tried it out. It was…fun? For a moment, his previous thoughts vanished. He spun slowly, then picked up speed, closing his eyes to block out the spinning room, extending his arms. It was like flying. Flying through the night sky, impervious to the cold, like some fearsome bird of prey—that'd be a cool idea for their next video, he thought. Maybe he'd start working on some lyrics about flying—just couldn't make them too cheerful, or he'd be risking an automatic veto from Nathan.

The click of the door lock caused him to reach out for the table and bring himself to a halt. Perhaps he'd imagined it, or perhaps one of the maids was coming, but it would be Not Very Metal to be caught spinning around and grinning like a fool. Or had he called room service again and forgotten about it? Maybe he _should_ call room service. Maybe they could get him some cinnamon buns.

He swung around to take up his drink from the table. Might as well down the rest quickly and get out of here. As he looked up into the mirror, he saw the face staring at him with dull, dark eyes from the open doorway. Pickles whirled back around on his stool.

"Tony?" he said in disbelief, and then, rather lamely, "You—you startled me."

"We wouldn't want that, would we?" Tony's voice had an alcohol-steeped coldness that was far more unnerving than his usual pathetic good humor. He stepped inside, pulling the door shut.

Pickles frowned. Tony was one of the last people he wanted to see, but there was something all wrong about this beyond that. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," said Tony. He swayed a little as he pulled out a half-empty bottle of Night Train that he must have had concealed beneath his tattered overcoat, and took a long swig.

Pickles swiveled back around to face the mirror, staring at his own reflection to avoid meeting Tony's eyes. "Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to see you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, it's possible," agreed Tony with false amiability, "but I don't think it's likely, is it?"

Now Pickles could put his finger on the other thing that had been bothering him. "How did you get in here?" The place was heavily guarded; there was no way a wandering stray could have gotten past so many Gears, not unless a roadie or someone had—

"That's not important. What's important is that, well, here you are, and here I am."

"Is it money you want?" asked Pickles. "I told ya before, I'm not giving you money. You should get outta here, all right?"

Tony laid a hand on Pickles's shoulder, causing the seated man to tense his muscles. 

"Don't do that. You know I didn't want to see you again."

"I don't want money," said Tony, ignoring the drummer's order, and leaning over him to run a hand across his throat and chest.

Pickles slapped at his hand. "I said, don't do that. Drugs, then? Booze? Are you really that badly off?"

"No." Tony's exploring fingers danced through his dreadlocks. "I was thinking more along the lines of…you."

"Me?" Pickles spun around again to look his former bandmate in the face. "Are ya mental?"

"No." Tony's voice rang out quick and hard. "I mean," he went on, more quietly, "I might've been before, breaking up with you," he took another drink from his bottle, "you know, thinking you were done for after Snakes N' Barrels, but now I know better."

"I broke up with you," Pickles reminded him, taking in with distaste the sight of his former lover, now overweight and slovenly, the condescending leer on his face no longer tempered by his once-attractive features.

"Sure you did, babe. Whatever makes you happy."

Pickles felt his face grow hot with anger. "This is exactly the kind of thing, Tony—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he reneged hastily. "I'm different now, babe, you know that."

"You mean, whoever you were mooching off of now has got wise, so you're trying to sweet-talk me?" Pickles had no illusions about his ex, not anymore. He might claim he was after a reconciliation, but Pickles couldn't imagine him having any intent beyond acquiring a place to stay and some easy cash.

"I admit I was seeing somebody until recently," said Tony easily, shrugging, "but that's over with now. I realized the mistake we made, calling it quits, so I came all the way to find you and see if you'd give me a chance to make it right."

"I appreciate the gesture," said Pickles coldly, then felt a pang of guilt at his sustained coldness. Imagine if Tony really did want to make amends, or at least offer a genuine gesture of civility, and Pickles was rejecting it out of pure cynicism?

"I'd even—I mean," Tony licked his lips, "we could get married. That's legal in, what, like six states now?"

"I got no plans to get married, Tony, not to you or to anyone." To emphasize his point, Pickles took another drink of gin, and found that his hands were shaking.

Tony's eyes narrowed. "You should be flattered that I'm willing to take you back. Maybe some cheap sluts want to fuck you because you're rich and famous but you know as well as I do that they don't give a damn beyond that. They don't want to be with you. Hell, there's nobody willing to put up with you except me. If you wanna walk away from me, I hope you have fun being alone the rest of your life."

"Fuck you, Tony." Hearing those words once again after years had passed still stung, but Pickles would be damned if he'd let him know it. "Get the hell out."

What stung even more was the slap that Tony dealt him across the face. "I think you must've forgotten how to speak with respect," said Tony, taking another long drink of wine.

Pickles started to stand. "That's it, I'm calling—"

"You're not calling anyone." Tony's heavy hand on Pickles's shoulder forced him back down onto the stool. "Now, let's talk. We both know why we really fought before."

"What, because you're a massive douchebag?" suggested Pickles, turning away.

Tony grabbed him under the chin and forced him to face him. "Because we didn't have any money, Pickles. Because you, little fuck-up that you are, let it all go to booze and blow."

"Let go of me!" Pickles struggled to pull away from him, and thought for a moment that he'd succeeded, but Tony had only released him in order to better seize him by the wrists. "Come on, Tony, I'm fucking serious."

"The money won't be a problem for us anymore," Tony continued over his protests. "You've taken care of that. I really think we could—" he hiccupped, "—could make it work this time around. I—I love you." His voice had gone tender again, and he gave Pickles a look that was probably intended as a loving gaze, but was actually enough to turn his stomach.

"Just leave," said Pickles, "and we'll forget this conversation never happened."

"Give me a chance," Tony repeated, pulling the redhead toward him. He tried to resist, but was really powerless against the larger man, who also was somewhat drunk and not exhausted, as Pickles was, from having just played a full set. Though Pickles tried to turn away, he found himself caught, his back pinned painfully against the dressing table, and having a kiss forced upon him. Tony's breath stank of vomit and cheap alcohol, and his tongue darted in desperate, sloppy licks over the drummer's lips. Pickles wanted to throw up, or to punch Tony in the face very hard. But most of all, he just felt utter humiliation at being subjected to this. Screw whatever ideas people had of fair fighting, he decided, and brought up his knee toward the guitarist's balls. Unfortunately for Pickles, Tony anticipated his movement and dodged the kick, sliding forward and breaking the forced kiss, but simultaneously slamming Pickles backward, halfway onto the table, scattering glasses, keys, and papers. Pickles cried out, but Tony seized him roughly by the throat.

"Don't fuck with me," Tony growled, and then, struck by the possibilities of his new position, lowered himself to grind against the drummer's hips, which he was now straddling. Pickles gave a whimper of fear and disgust, which Tony evidently took for enjoyment, as he repeated the action and reached behind his back with his free hand to grope clumsily for Pickles's cock. "Yeah, you like it, told you you'd like it."

"Stop it," rasped Pickles. "Get the fuck off me."

"You know you want it. Don't pretend like you're too good for me."

Pickles drew back his fist and punched Tony in the face as hard as he could. The effect was, admittedly, less impressive than he'd hoped, since position and gravity were working against him, but nevertheless, Tony reeled for a moment, giving Pickles enough time to tear away the dark-haired man's hand from his throat.

"Listen, ya douchebag—" Before he could finish the sentence, Tony backhanded him, splitting open his lower lip. As Pickles cried out in pain, Tony clapped a hand over his mouth, and with the other, began undoing his own rather dirty pants.

Pickles squirmed and bucked his hips, trying to throw him off, but it proved fruitless.

"You know I like it when you put up a fight. You remember that, honey?"

Pickles closed his eyes and tried _not_ to remember.

Tony, meanwhile, took his own sad-looking member in his hand and began to stroke, but appeared to have difficulty maintaining an erection.

"You wanna suck me off?" Tony forced two fingers into Pickles's mouth. As Pickles reached automatically to knock his hand away, the bigger man caught Pickles by the arm and twisted it behind his head. "Don't you try that, now. Come on," he shoved his fingers deeper into the drummer's throat, making him gag, "show me what you wanna do to the real thing." Since he no longer had a hand free to touch himself, he began to clumsily thrust his half-hard dick in the general region of the drummer's abdomen.

There was a knock at the door. "Pickle, you comings? You ams said you would be meeting us for the drinkings ten minutes ago."

Pickles tried to call out, but it was muffled by Tony's hand clamping down, choking him, stinging his already bleeding mouth. He had to do something. No one could hear him, no one was going to come looking for him after Skwisgaar went away, and Tony was drunk enough that'd he'd likely kill him, even if not on purpose.

Pickles rocked suddenly to one side with all the force he could muster, tipping them both off the stool. Tony gave a yell of surprise as he fell, and they crashed to the floor. Pickles kicked out at him, tried to roll away, put distance between them, but Tony caught a handful of his hair and slammed his face against the floor. At least it was carpeted, he thought vaguely, as bright lights flashed before his eyes.

"Pickle? You all rights?" called the distant voice beyond the door, fading in and out. The pattern on the carpet swam. It was ugly anyway. A wave of nausea rose in him, the lights flickered once or twice, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

When he opened his eyes, Pickles realized that time had elapsed, though not very much. Whereas Tony had previously been wallowing on the floor amidst the remains of the broken vanity stool, he was now atop Pickles, who was lying on his side, thrusting his sticky, mostly limp dick against the drummer's hip. Pickles himself was, he was thankful to realize, still clothed, although Tony was attempting, without much coordination, to remedy that.

He wanted to move, to scream, to hurt Tony, or at least to get away from him, but he felt so weak that he could barely move. What had he done to deserve being degraded like this? He'd just been minding his own business and suddenly, Tony had been there—

With a bang, the door flew open, kicked in by two Klokateers, who rushed into the room, followed by Skwisgaar. The blonde guitarist froze at the sight that met him, but the Gears didn't hesitate to seize Tony and drag him out of the room, half-naked and shouting incoherently. He gave a yelp as the masked men "accidentally" caused him to collide with the doorframe, and then they were gone.

"Pickle…" said Skwisgaar in a tone somewhere between discomfort and alarm. Pickles, however, didn't respond; he just lay on the floor and trembled.

Skwisgaar seemed to pull himself together. "Pickle, you all rights? You don't looks so goods." He knelt next to him and surveyed the damage. The drummer's throat, wrists, and face were bruised, his hair was disheveled, and a mixture of blood and saliva dripped down his chin to dampen his shirt. "You want I should calls you a doctor?"

"N-no!" It hurt to speak, but he had to answer; he couldn't deal with anyone else knowing about this. It was bad enough that Skwisgaar had seen it.

"You sures? Your face ams looking pretty not so good," said the Swede, his bony hand extending toward him.

"No! All right? Just leave it. Just go. Leave me." He struggled to sit up, succeeding only by propping himself against the wall, and scrubbed at his face with his shirt. It made some improvement, but some of the blood had dried, and still stained his skin.

"Pickle, that man was in Snake and Barrel with you, _ja_ ? What was he doings here? Why is he hurtings you?"

"Cause—cause he's got problems, all right?" said Pickles somewhat incoherently, one hand gingerly inspecting the swelling over his cheekbone. "I swear to God, you tell anybody about this—"

"Pickle," Skwisgaar persisted, feeling extremely uncomfortable, but also feeling something else that wouldn't let him do as he was told and go away—something like compassion, or worry, or whatever it might be when one wanted to hold an injured puppy and pet it until its whimpering ceased. "Please, talks to me. I cannots leave you likes this." He hesitated again, then proceeded carefully. "He ams was trying to—how does one say—to sex-skallies assaults you?"

"Skwisgaar—" Pickles sighed, not finishing the statement. "I dunno. Yeah. I guess. He was like—I was just sittin' there, dood!" Outrage, or something like it, seemed to break through the shell-shock. "I didn't do nothin' to him. He just comes in and tries to kiss me, and—and—"

"Oh…Pickle..."

Pickles hugged his knees to his chest, shaking. His breathing was shallow. "And he said—he said some heavy shit, dood."

Skwisgaar didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. He didn't know what he should do or say, if anything at all. After all, what could he do if Pickles didn't want him to? Yet he felt he had to try, had to make him stop shaking and having that awful expression cross his features.

"Shh. Let me sees it."

This time Pickles didn't shy away from the long fingers, just closed his eyes and braced himself, but the touch was gentle. The guitarist's calloused fingertips traced very, very gently over his cheek, applied the most infinitesimal pressure at his jaw which Pickles obeyed to tilt his head back. Skwisgaar took a closer look at his throat. It looked painful, yes, but the bruising wasn't as bad as it had looked initially now that it wasn't in shadow.

"What dids he say?" asked Skwisgaar, finally remembering Pickles's statement as he took one slender wrist in his hands.

"Doesn't matter," said Pickles. "Forget I mentioned it."

"You should perhaps puts some ice on this," said Skwisgaar, noting the slight swelling of the drummer's left wrist where it was circled with discoloration, and reaching for the other. "Possiblies a sprain, _ja_?"

"He said nobody else wants me," Pickles said dully. "I mean, even if it's true, hell, it is true, but that don't mean he's got the right to come in and say it to me, ya know?" A little, strangled sob escaped him. "Ah, you know what, fuck it, dood, just—just forget about it, all right?"

"Pickle," said Skwisgaar, "you am shakens up. It wills be okay." He hesitated. "Mays I?"

"Huh?" Pickles stared at him, trying to hold back tears. Why couldn't the dumb blonde get lost and leave him to collapse on his own, fall asleep, and pretend in the morning that this night had never happened, just like so many other things he pretended never happened?

Skwisgaar extended a hand awkwardly, and while Pickles gave him an odd look, he didn't flinch or move away, so Skwisgaar slipped an arm around his shoulders and gave him what passed for a hug. Pickles stared at him for a moment, and then, utterly exhausted and beyond the point of caring, he exhaled and let his muscles relax, his head falling back onto the Swede's shoulder as he stared up at the ceiling.

"What he saids," he began, paused, and then forced himself to go on, despite a burning feeling of shame growing in his chest. "It ams not true, Pickle."

Pickles took a deep breath. "What ain't true?"

"About what nobodies wants you." Then, indignantly: "What ams that guys know about it anyway?"

"We used to—we had a thing. A long time ago. It didn't end so good."

"The more you tell me abouts him, the more I likes him less."

Pickles only shrugged. "Eh, it don't—wait, whaddaya mean, that's not true?"

"I—you know, you shoulds go to sleep. I tell you about it some others time." Skwisgaar had the feeling that Pickles was still in a delicate mental state, and, for once in his life, doubted that what he wanted to say would be appropriate at the moment.

"Don't give me that bullshit. If you wanna tell me something, tell me now."

"I—I cannots." Skwisgaar stood. "I will be goings now. I only wanted to make certains that you woulds be all right." He nodded in farewell and started toward the door.

Pickles felt a chill come upon him at the thought of being left alone with his own thoughts, his own memories, replaying over and over what had just happened until it sunk in and he was able to feel something beyond muted disbelief.

"Wait!" Pickles stood quickly, and had to lean against the wall; he felt lightheaded.

Skwisgaar paused, and after a moment, turned, eyebrows raised. " _Ja?_ "

"Don't—don't go. I know I said to, but don't—don't listen to me. I—I don't want to be alone." He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.

Skwisgaar went to him and hugged him, careful not to do anything that would give the drummer the impression that he was holding him against his will. "Don'ts cries…I mean, cries if you have to," he amended, "I mean…" At a loss for words, the blonde gave up and guided Pickles to the bed and helped him to sit down.

As Pickles lowered his hands from his face, the guitarist could see that he was openly crying now. Skwisgaar didn't think that this was going to go away anytime soon. He kicked off his boots, positioned himself against the headboard with a few pillows behind him, and placed a hand on Pickles's arm.

"Come here," he said, and the drummer complied, curling up against the younger man and resting his face against the warmth of his chest. The guitarist pulled the blanket over them both and wrapped his arms around his bandmate, rubbing his shoulders gently. "It will be okays," he whispered. He would do anything to make it okay.

Pickles said something incoherent into his shoulder.

"Sorries, what?"

"Ya don't understand," gulped Pickles, raising his head. "He was right."

"It ams right to break into hotels rooms and attack someone? _Nej_ , I do nots think so."

"Nah, I mean he was right about how I'm gonna end up alone." He squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face against the blankets again. "Maybe I should just, I dunno, go jump off the roof or somethin'."

"Pickle, please listens to me," said Skwisgaar desperately. "I—that ams not true. I promise. Go to sleeps, all right?"

"Don't leave me." The drummer's voice was near hysterical. The prospect of being left alone became more and more unbearable. Besides, the physical contact was calming, even if Skwisgaar was only doing it out of some kind of misguided pity.

"I ams not going anywhere," came the whispered answer.

"I know ya don't really mean it," murmured Pickles, but he was too tired and too upset to fully follow that train of thought, so he just snuggled closer and felt Skwisgaar's wiry arms tighten protectively around him.

"Pickle," said Skwisgaar, frowning, "I did nots want to tell you this tonights. It does not seem exactlies fitting. But—I like you veries much."

"Me?" said Pickles, his astonishment dulled by exhaustion. "But—but," he said, rather confusedly, "I always thought you were after Toki."

"Pfft, Toki. He ams like a childrens." Skwisgaar shrugged. "Also, he ams only into sex with de ladies."

Pickles wiped his eyes. "You really mean it, dood? You wanna—you wanna be—?"

"Shh," said Skwisgaar, "There ams plenties of time to talk about it tomorrows. Go to sleep."

Still trembling, still crying at intervals, Pickles held tight to Skwisgaar until the gentle touch of the Swede's hands over his back and arms finally made him relaxed enough for sleep to be a possibility. A curtain of blonde hair swept over his face, and Skwisgaar leaned down to kiss him on the temple.

"I ams not going anywhere," he repeated as Pickles drifted off to sleep.


End file.
